


Living, Breathing, Fighting

by Bfly1225



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, reverse omens - Fandom
Genre: 1970's, Angel Crowley, Angst, Demon Aziraphale, Descriptions of Anxiety, Fight Club - Freeform, M/M, Violence, descriptions of flashbacks, descriptions of nightmares, descriptions of trauma, reverse au, slight comfort at the end but mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-27 21:18:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19797958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bfly1225/pseuds/Bfly1225
Summary: Ziraphon liked to act like he didn’t have anxiety. He liked to pretend that 6000 years on this earth, seeing the things he did, travelling and getting into situations that were prudently described as unsavory didn’t have an effect on him.Truthfully, Ziraphon possessed a great deal of anxiety, and no shortage of small ticks and triggers that could bring him to a time in history that was nothing short of horrible. And nightmares, oh god, the nightmares.AKAZiraphon needs to escape from his apartment before his head explodes. This leads to some destructive behaviors. . .





	Living, Breathing, Fighting

**Author's Note:**

> This!! contains some descriptions of brain functions that might be upsetting to some people. Please please please if you're not prepared for that, don't read it.

Ziraphon liked to act like he didn’t have anxiety. He liked to pretend that 6000 years on this earth, seeing the things he did, travelling and getting into situations that were prudently described as unsavory didn’t have an effect on him.

Truthfully, Ziraphon possessed a great deal of anxiety, and no shortage of small ticks and triggers that could bring him to a time in history that was nothing short of horrible. And nightmares, oh god, the nightmares. His mind shaking him awake, feeding him thoughts in parts, all scrambled and layered and out of order that felt like madness. Images that he can see when he opens his eyes and tried to be awake now, tried to get rid of the thoughts that felt like going insane. His brain, he was convinced, had something very wrong with it, to be able to conjure images and thoughts that left him trembling and feeling isolated, to make him feel trapped somewhere in his own mind. 

And here was the other part of it: Half the world seemed not to understand or care about or even believe in mental illness. Now, that was just an insult to literal injury. Therapists were frowned upon until just recently and even then, it wasn’t like Ziraphon could go see one. He was thousands of years old with thousands of years of traumas and joys and knowledge. He couldn’t just admit all of that to a human, it would break their mind far worse than his was already damaged, and he couldn’t just load all his problems onto Corviel, an innocent. Besides, he was sure Corviel was sick of him anyways.

Ziraphon wasn’t sure where to project his problems. He didn’t really have many hobbies- drinking and being promiscuous didn’t count, and his plants weren’t something that he could take his anxiety out on, it was an issue. 

He was an extrovert. Being alone bothered him, but he found it hard to get out. He didn’t fit in in places. He could go to a gay club downtown, but that wasn’t exactly where he’d go to have wholesome or building interactions. He didn’t exactly feel like fucking his troubles away on this night, and the only places he was well known were those kinds of places. It was currently the early nineteen seventies, and he had decided he was goddamn sick of drinking alone. He hadn’t talked to Corviel in years (dumb angelic bastard) and his hair was nearly half-red (he missed Corviel) and he was ready to find something to do. Being locked in his apartment was probably the worst thing for him- it only made his mind more inclined to make those horrible scenarios and those madman-like thoughts that he couldn’t decipher. 

Well, he couldn’t quite remember the rest that led him here, but he sure was in a chain link cage with a very angry man with VERY heavy fists. He smudged the blood from a split lip across his cheek, fixing his cracked sunglasses that had just taken a heavy blow. 

“That’s it, buddy. You’re dead.” He croaked, straightening himself up. The crowd outside of the cage roared with enthusiasm as he stretched, popped his shoulder, set his jaw-

Dust, blood, sweat-

No. 

Unbearable sun, a roaring crowd- 

No, not this again. 

Suddenly, without Ziraphon’s permission, his mind brought him back. Back to a place he’d forced himself to forget. 

The coliseum. Sweat, dust, a busted lip. A large opponent, blaring lights in Ziraphon’s face. Ziraphon’s bright blue eyes, frightened as he had been tossed into the ring. He hadn’t asked for this. He was mostly naked, and this time it wasn’t on purpose. He was wearing very little, with a sword and small shield to make his death entertaining. The guards that had hauled him to the coliseum had assumed, due to his small size and slight amount of chub, his toga that never covered quite enough, and assumed Ziraphon couldn’t fight. 

He could. He would, this man was going fucking down. 

With no short of demonic miracles, and help from his demonic strength, his opponent was dead in moments. 

But unfortunately, with that, came round after round of fighting. Horrors that Ziraphon didn’t want to see, not again-

Ziraphon could feel his body being dragged over cold concrete, warm hands and the boos of the crowd as Ziraphon could still see the dusts of the coliseum, the blood on his hands-  
“Ziraphon! Ziraphon, please wake up.” 

Those words. Those were new. 

“Dear, open your eyes.” Begging, soothing voice faint smell of smoke. Vinyl, wood, spicy foods. 

Corviel. 

“Jesus fuck,” Ziraphon groaned. “Do I even have ribs right now?” 

“Zirpahon! Oh, oh Ziraphon!” Corviel gasped, movement to hug him. 

“Don’t!” He yelped. Blood- dust- sweat- no! He needed not to be touched. 

“Oh, right, yeah. Sorry, that guy was uh, hurting you pretty bad.”

“Yeah, he was really destroying me.” He chuckled, trying very hard not to cough up blood or admit that he just went into a deep flashback for a few minutes in the middle of a fight in an illegal fight club. “Fancy seeing you here, and all that.” 

“You should be lucky I was passing by.” He hissed. “Alright, up you get, you’re getting in the car and I’m going to patch you up.” Corviel began picking him up, pulling Ziraphon to his feet and wrapping his arm around him, careful of his bruised ribs. He limped Ziraphon to the car. 

“One would think you really do care, angel.” He coughed, limping along with Coviel. 

“I do. Despite your best efforts.” Corivel scoffed. “I don’t think I could stop caring if I wanted to.” 

“Oh, that’s cheesy.” Was Zirpahon’s only response. “Real cheesy.” 

“I know. Shut up and get your rear in my gosh darn car, Ziraphon.”


End file.
